Where the Hell Was I?http://www.wherethehellwasi.com/
enCopyright 2016Sat, 18 Apr 2015 17:46:58 -0500http://www.sixapart.com/movabletype/?v=1.0.1http://blogs.law.harvard.edu/tech/rssI'll Ask Ya Once, Then Alexa Again(What's that in the sky? A bird? A plane? One of those newfangled pizza-delivering robo-drones?

No. It's science. Specifically, Secondhand SCIENCE. And uber-specifically, this week's post all about the Faraday cage. Check it out -- the details may shock you.

Or they won't. Because that's the whole point of Faraday cages. Just go see, would ya?)

I have a new lady in my life.

Well, technically it's not a lady, I suppose. It's a small cylinder made of plastic and metal. But I think of it as a lady.

If you've never heard of the Echo, it's a gadgety sort of thing from Amazon that sits in your house and plays music and answers questions in a gentle, sweet, probably totally not even condescending tone, even when you ask something any idiot would know.

This is nice, because that's not a thing people do. When I ask actual people my questions, they're generally less patient:

"How many ounces of butter in a stick? Look it up yourself, dairyboy."

Echo -- or, as she prefers to be addressed, Alexa -- doesn't do that. Not out loud, anyway. Maybe she's cursing me under her transistors, but it's not in an audio range humans can hear. So that's nice.

The Echo has been out for a few months now, but Amazon has a waiting list to get one and I don't know any important people -- none who don't curse me audibly under their breath, anyway -- so it took me a while to get my grubby voice activations on one.

But now I do. Alexa arrived this week, and I put her in the kitchen.

No, not because she's a lady. Gah.

Actually, it's because... well, let's face it. There are some rooms in my condo I understand a lot better than others. Like the living room -- most of the time I'm in the living room, I have a pretty good handle on what's happening. At least, since Lost went off the air a few years ago. Also, Game of Thrones gets pretty confusing.

(And while we're at it, who can follow Blue's Clues? You think it's, like, some gritty CSI show with all the clues, then suddenly the guy goes and sits in a "thinking chair". What is that? Horatio Caine never needed a thinking chair. When Morpheus was on there solving crimes, he didn't have any cogitating furniture.

And don't even get me started on this "baby paprika" character. Again.)

Okay, so I have a lot of living room questions, actually. But they mostly involve TV shows I'm not paying close enough attention to, and if I asked Alexa every two minutes "hey, who's that guy?" or "wasn't she just with the bad guys?", I'm certain she'd bludgeon me to death before the first commercial break.

Probably with herself. That Echo hardware is heavy.

"Alexa can't help me in the office. No one can help me in the office."

The same goes for the rest of my living space. The dining room confuses me, so I just don't go in there. The office brings up all sorts of questions, but they're mostly existential:

"What the hell am I doing in here on a Saturday?"

"Why haven't I given up banging on this keyboard already?"

"If there's any meaning in the universe, why have I spent the last ninety minutes fighting with goddamned Microsoft Office?"

These are valid questions. But unanswerable. Alexa can't help me in the office. No one can help me in the office.

The bathroom is pretty question-free, at least. Mostly. And any questions I have there, I'm not going to ask some tender-voiced lady-sounding person, anyway. That's what Ask Jeeves is for. Because screw that guy.

So the only real options for placing Alexa were the kitchen and the bedroom. And I figured if I still have bedroom questions forty-plus years into this thing, then that's between me and natural selection and possibly a very well-compensated psychiatrist. So Alexa's in the kitchen, where I can -- more or less safely -- ask kitchen questions.

Which is good. I have a lot of kitchen questions.

So far, Alexa's doing a pretty good job of sorting me out. Now I have answers at my fingertips -- or really, at my tongue-tip -- when I run into some ingredient I don't understand. Like "garam masala" or "Brussels sprouts" or "non-fat". What is a "non-fat", and why would you grow one? Does it sprout on a fat-free tree? Who would even eat such a thing? And are the fat-frees free-range?

These are the questions I have. Alexa answers them all, without so much as a disapproving click.

Of course, she's not perfect. Alexa can't -- can't, or won't, lady? -- tell me which spatula would make the best back scratcher. And when I asked her to sniff the milk and tell me if it was bad, she just sat there on the counter. I don't think she smelled it at all, frankly. That's a little rude.

But overall, an Alexa in the kitchen is pretty cool. I'm learning a lot, and the voice activated interactions are very entertaining.

Now I just need her to explain what the hell is happening on The Americans. Seriously, this season is one big ball of "what?" It's like that Powerpuff Girls movie all over again.

As always, that's Secondhand SCIENCE. This week, come and meet mitochondrial Eve. And be cool to her; she's, like, your mom. I don't care who you are -- she's basically your mom. Seriously.)

So I'm thinking of taking a page out of the Chinese government playbook.

No, really. Hear me out here. I know they've had some crazy ideas in the past. And the present. And most every alternative universe anyone's ever imagined.

And sure, Chinese policies like government-sanctioned censorship -- very bad. Oppression and discrimination of citizens via polcies like the Hukou system -- reprehensible. Rigged political processes, sham labor organizations, picking on Tibet, naming a puppet Lama, widespread use of capital punishment, repressing critical discourse and alleged dissident organ harvesting -- all of these are pretty awful practices, and not the sort of things I'd want to implement around my own neighborhood.

(Though I bet that loudmouth asshole across the street has a nice healthy liver. I could make an exception.)

"Even I don't want to live in a nation where everyone wears rugby shirts and listens to weird music and doesn't know what to do with their hands at dinner parties."

Still. It's not like the Chinese government is always off base. Take that "one child" policy they've been rocking the past few decades. That's not so bad. Yes, the implementation is horrendous -- rampant strong-arming and gender-selecting and human rights violations -- but the idea could work. One child per couple; a nation of only children. I'm an only child -- just imagine a whole country full of me.

Okay, scratch that. That's a terrible idea. Even I don't want to live in a nation where everyone wears rugby shirts and listens to weird music and doesn't know what to do with their hands at dinner parties. We'd be terrible at national security. And we'd have the most awkward parades on the planet.

So that doesn't build confidence in adopting a Chinese government policy, either, really, but I have high hopes for this other one. You may be aware -- as it's been going on for years -- that China is in a territorial dispute with... well, pretty much everyone on their side of the planet.

(No, but seriously. It's been going on for years. The timeline in that linked Wikipedia article about it goes back to the third century B.C..

Seriously, who holds a grudge over fighting that started twenty-four hundred years ago? Back then, even the Christians, Jews and Muslims were getting along, I bet.)

(Yes, I'm aware. Move along.)

Currently, most countries bordering the South China Sea -- Malaysia, Vietnam, Indonesia, the Philippines, you name it -- claim a modest swath of ocean off their respective land borders as their territory. There's some international maritime acronym-or-another who says that 200 miles out from your coastline should be yours, and generally speaking, these countries are cool with the rule.

But not China. No, China basically says:

"if it's not a wave you can physically surf onto your beach, then it belongs to us."

China's made a claim -- a dubious, greedy, Scrooge McDuckesque claim -- on pretty much the entire South China Sea, and any lands, islands, peninsulii, isthmuseses, archipelageese or post-apocalyptic Waterworld-style floating cities that might be found there.

(I'm sure Kevin Costner will be happy to know somebody is finally interested in that nightmare.)

But lately, China hasn't even worried about claiming the islands that are there. Instead, they've gone and made some new ones.

It's a total dick move. A resource grab. A bullying, brazen, "my naval dick is bigger than your naval dick" play for all the marbles they can get.

And it's genius. I'm totally getting me some of that.

Not in the South China Sea, of course. China's naval dick is way bigger than mine. They've got a fleet of warships, probably. I have a rubber ducky and a pool raft that sinks if you don't blow enough air into it. So I'm not expanding my borders there.

But around my neighborhood? Why not?

I figure the first step is claim all the "common area" in my condo building. Hallways, porches, the basement, any interesting parts of the rooftop -- those are mine. Nobody else is using them, so I'm staking a claim.

Of course, I might have to physically mark my new territory. I can move an armoire outside the upstairs neighbors' door to let them know. Maybe some desk lamps through the main hallway -- nothing too obstructive. All the foot traffic can still move through. If they pay the tolls, of course.

But that's just the start. None of the neighbors on the block are using their yards; they're just littered with plants and bushes and nonsense. I'll take those over, too -- everything right up to their doorsteps. Or maybe their front walks; some of the actual doorsteps around here are pretty ugly. I don't really have the furniture to stake out those claims, so I'll just do what China's doing: I'll truck in a bunch of dirt and dump it on their lawns.

Sure, they'll be pissed. But it's my lawn now. And my dirt. Take it up with the U.N., sporto. Yo shit's been annexed.

I figure I can get at least to the next block before I run out of lamps and dressers and money for claim dirt. That's not quite a whole "south sea", but it's a start. You might think I don't have the military force to keep all these extra lands -- but I've got that covered.

This is the Boston suburbs we're talking about here, not some gulf in the Asian Pacific. Remember that ducky and the pool float I mentioned? In this neighborhood, brother, I'm navally hung.

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http://www.wherethehellwasi.com/categories/weird-for-the-sake-of-weird/manifest_doofusry.htmlWeird for the Sake of WeirdSat, 11 Apr 2015 02:02:23 -0500Taking Out the Trash (Talk)(It may be April, but there's no fooling science. Unless it's Secondhand SCIENCE, possibly.

But let's assume not, and form a single-file line to click over for this week's discussion, all about orbital decay. It's the only science article you'll read this week that mentions the Hubble telescope, Paula Deen and a hockey mask-wearing horror movie murderer. No foolin'.)

I'm not really a trash talker. Mostly, it doesn't make a lot of sense to me.

I mean, first of all, most trash talk people do is about something they have no control over in the first place. "My dad could beat up your dad," for instance. That's ridiculous. Nobody's fathers are going to go at it in a cage match because their nine-year-olds got in an argument over whose Pokemon would win on Jeopardy or whatever.

(And anyway, my dad's got a bad knee. He can still jab, probably, but his footwork's not what it used to be. I can't take that risk.)

But worse, the kids have no say in whose dad would come out of that tussle on top. And most trash talk is like that -- not only are you bragging out your ass, it's someone's else's ass you're bragging about. The red sports team I like is better than the blue one you cheer for. My Miss America favorite eats your favorite's lunch -- or would, if either of them consumed solid food in the six months before the swimsuit competition. And my base-pandering, corporate-sponsored double-talking politician of choice is twice the man/woman/programmable talking robot your base-pandering, corporate-sponsored, double-talking politician will ever be.

Frankly, I don't see the point. You might as well whip your wangs out to measure over who can predict a coin flip.

(Don't do this, by the way. Besides being poor etiquette in general, you don't want to be whacked in the willie by a tumbling coin. Especially a quarter. Trust me.)

Of course, some (tiny) percentage of trash talking is done to back up something personal. Whether it's a race or a bet or a challenge over who can stuff the most live lobsters down their pants, before some people do it, they want to talk about it. How fast they're going to run. How much money they'll win. Their special secret underpants, which are way more crustacean-friendly than yours. Yak yak yak.

It all seems pretty exhausting to me, and I steer clear for two reasons. First, it's an awful lot of extra energy going to waste that I could be using on winning whatever nonsense we're doing. Stretching my calves or planning a strategy or supergluing a lot of lobster claws shut, for instance.

But also, I don't trash talk because I'm pretty uniformly bad at everything. And when you run your mouth and lose, it's a great deal worse than losing without running your mouth at all. Do your talking with your poor performance and pouty demeanor afterward, I say. Take the high road. Relatively speaking.

(Also, make excuses. Did I mention my father's knee? I probably inherited that, so that's why I lost any speed-related thing. Also, the sun was in my eyes. And I'm wearing those Fruit of the Lobster boxers, which can't possibly help.)

It is for these reasons -- and the doubtless ensuing shame and ridicule I'd likely endure -- that I don't engage in trash talk, as a rule.

"It was a big bug, though skinny -- like Andre the mosquito giant, or a wasp that's really into cardio, maybe."

However. I do make one exception, and it happened this morning.

When I climb into the shower and there's a bug inside -- insect, spider, any-kind-of-crawly-pede -- then shit is ON, brother. And I'm going to talk about it. Trashily.

When I stepped in this morning, I caught a glimpse of some winged something-or-other buzzing the shower head. It was a big bug, though skinny -- like Andre the mosquito giant, or a wasp that's really into cardio, maybe. But size doesn't matter, in this situation.

I knew I could take this buzzing bozo -- but I was going to let him hear about it while I did. So I yapped. I barked a bunch of stuff that ended with "MY house" and a waggly no-no finger. And I postured for effect.

As well as one can posture while standing naked with one foot in the shower and a bottle of Pert Plus in the non-finger-waggling hand. Which, if I'm honest, is not a lot.

Still, I trash-talked that bug, and I trash-talked him good. I don't get a lot of practice -- which is good, because otherwise it would mean a parade of crawly assholes were setting up shop in my showering spot -- but I came through. It's like riding a bike.

Or like berating a bike with "yo momma" jokes, maybe. I'm actually not sure how bicycles apply here, exactly.

Anyway, I told this waspy-legged interloper what for, and then I turned the water on and washed him onto the shower wall. He wiggled for a while, but I hosed him again -- and talked some more trash, natch -- and he mostly stopped. So I washed him down, into the shower and down by the drain, talking at him all the way. Like, in his face. Only from the other end of the shower, because ew.

I don't know whether the bug made it down the drain all the way. It was pretty big, and I wasn't going over there to look. I've seen horror movies -- and especially ones where somebody trash talks the big ugly monster out to get everyone. If you go looking at it when it's dead, then it's definitely not dead, and that's when it stings you or barfs acid on you or lays eggs up your nose while it slaps you around with a thorax or something.

So obviously, I didn't take a shower today. And maybe won't tomorrow, just to be safe. But I gave that bug a piece of my mind, and washed it onto, maybe down-maybe not, the drain. Where I trash talked it, but good. Like it was someone else's favorite base-pandering, corporate-sponsored, double-talking politician, right before the swimsuit competition.

Aw, yeah.

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http://www.wherethehellwasi.com/categories/just-life/taking_out_the_trash_talk.htmlJust LifeSat, 04 Apr 2015 21:13:06 -0500Radio Dazed(Science marches on like a lion... or a lamb. Or something. Anyway, it's spring and a new week and that means a new Secondhand SCIENCE.

Hop on over to learn all about glial cells, and what they have to do with Scooby Doo, training gyms and everyone's favorite mushmouthed Hollywood boxer. It's a champ!)

Every week, Jess showcases a weblog and chats with the wild-eyed lunatic behind it -- and this week, that wild-eyed lunatic is me!

"I just wanted to feel better about the ridiculous nonsense I spouted in a public forum, is all."

(I can't actually speak to the lunacy or eye-wilderness of the previous guests. In the shows I've listened to, they've seemed pretty sane and composed. I just wanted to feel better about the ridiculous nonsense I spouted in a public forum, is all.)

The link above may not work until the show actually airs, I think. Which maybe I should have told you somewhere before the link, in case you clicked it right away. But how would that work, anyway? If I put a warning up there, like:

HERE COMES A LINK, BUT FOR THE LOVE OF UNBROKEN ANIMAL CRACKERS, DON'T CLICK ON IT YET!

Then you're totally going to click on it. Probably twice. I know how this works.

Also, I'm not entirely positive that the show airs at noon. But you should maybe cancel all of your plans starting at noon, just to be safe. I know I will. And that's a lot of afternoon sleeping to give up. I'm just saying.

That pretty much covers it. Tomorrow, noonish (probably). Check out DJ Jess for some great tunes and a little Q & A with me on Biology of the Blog.

(Full disclosure: we didn't actually talk about biology; that's just the name of the show. Although we did chat a bit about colonizing Mars.

I mean, not us colonizing Mars, obviously. We're both way too busy for that. She's got radio shows to do every week, and I... well. Those forty-three episodes of the Simpsons sitting on my TiVo aren't going to watch themselves.)

So this has been a mess. But if you thought this post was rambling and tangential and awkward... oh, there's plenty more where that came from. Tune in tomorrow.

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http://www.wherethehellwasi.com/categories/bits-about-blogging/radio_dazed.htmlBits About BloggingWed, 25 Mar 2015 17:36:39 -0500I'm the Guy and I Don't Know Why(March marches on, and so does science. Namely, Secondhand SCIENCE. This week's wackiness is all about tectonic plates. It's an earth-moving experience. Probably. Check it out.)

There's a troubling development at my office recently. It would seem I've become "the guy" for a thing.

Now, to a point, I'm okay with that. I've been "the guy" for things before. I scrap together little bits of software for people, and cram numbers into databases sometimes. So when one of those stops working or catches someone on fire, then sure -- I'm "the guy" who has to fix it and clean up the mess and rub aloe vera on some poor users' ruined fingers. That's part of the job.

But this is different. This is not my thing, nor a thing I know much of anything about. It's a big scary set of interlocking systems, all talking to each other -- in Swahili, for all I know -- and a couple of other guys built it and babysat it and kept scripts and monitors and pipelines full of aloe running for when things went haywire. For years, they did this, and nobody really knew -- or wanted to know, frankly -- exactly how those particular sausages were being prepared.

Which was fine.

Except now those guys are gone.

(Cost-cutting thing, from what I understand. You could keep the system or keep the people taking care of it. And since the people couldn't remember as much data as the databases or spit pretty numbers into a spreadsheet, the people got the boot. And the system sputters on.

Sometimes.)

With the people who had any practical knowledge of this thing gone, the company turned to the next best thing: someone with no earthly idea how the thing works or which bits of string are glued to which other bits, but who sat down with one of the guys who built it for five minutes before he left to learn one very specific instruction for one tiny corner of the system, in case that bit looks like it's going to crack and fall off some day.

In other words, me. "The guy".

In fairness, I'm not the only "guy". Other people learned little snippets of this monster from the builders, and they're "the guys" and "the girls" for those pieces, and probably all sorts of surrounding bits they have no idea about. But not being alone in this really doesn't help that much.

Basically, this is like that old parable where a bunch of blind people -- or blindfolded, maybe, if this particular parable author was uncharacteristically generous about infirmities in the story -- wander around feeling up an elephant.

(I'm noting here that if you're unfamiliar with this parable, the above description probably gives you a way kinkier impression of it than is really warranted.

Noting it, but not changing it. Because some Bollywood skin flick director will be all over that, and I want credit for the idea. But if you need the actual elephant story details, Wikipedia's your huckleberry.)

Only our situation is a little different. Whoever touched the tail is now assumed to have encyclopedic knowledge of all things elephant ass. The tusk-toucher is magically the resident expert on tusks, horns, fangs, spikes, ivory, ebony, piano tuning and Beethoven's Fifth.

I don't have it the worst. I only brushed a wrinkly leg, figuratively speaking, but now I'm fielding questions about pants pressing, Oil of Olay and grandma gams.

Again, figuratively.

Still, these are questions I can't answer. I'm looking at one corner of a giant black box covered in buttons and switches, and I know the one I can push to make a gumball come out. If you want a jelly bean, I can't help you. If you're looking for surf and turf, you'll be sorely disappointed with what I know. And if you need your hair extinguished and a nice aloe vera shampoo, then I'm probably no help at all.

So it's unfortunate. The only thing worse than being "the guy" for a thing is being "the guy" for a thing you really aren't especially "the guy" for. And the people coming to me for help aren't getting anywhere, either. Because I can only give them the same answer:

"Go ask elephant-ass guy. Maybe he knows something."

But probably not. Dude's blind, so Dumbo's probably sat on him by now. I'm just saying, it's a mess.